


Five Minnows and a Hopeless Wanderer

by RougeBlatant



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Adults, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Fishing, Not Beta Read, Old Friends, One Shot, POV Third Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 08:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19195090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RougeBlatant/pseuds/RougeBlatant
Summary: Years have passed since the Moomins have left Moominvalley, each year that passes Snufkin returns, each year he loses hope in ever seeing his old friend again.------'Part of him wonders why he's returned, as with every year, the first two, three, four made more sense, but now he's become senseless and trapped by routine, hardly like a mumrik should be. Then again, he was half Mymble and there was nothing wrong with dreaming, even if it never quite became reality.'





	Five Minnows and a Hopeless Wanderer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I haven't read the book series, all I know is from the 1990s show, looking at wiki articles and asking my boyfriend questions, I haven't read Moominvalley in November (which this is set long after), though I believe it ends with them returning. This I suppose can be considered an AU where they do not.
> 
> This is for my boyfriend, who somehow managed to pull me into another thing that I enjoy that I promised I would wrote this for to mess with.
> 
> Title is inspired by Hopeless Wanderer by Mumford and Sons.

The sheet of snow that dappled the ground and draped over the branches had started to glow; their melting bodies encapturing the sunlight causing shimmers in puddles as droplets fall overhead and land with an insignificant 'plop'.

Part of him wonders why he's returned, as with every year, the first two, three, four made more sense, but now he's become senseless and trapped by routine, hardly like a mumrik should be. Then again, he was half Mymble and there was nothing wrong with dreaming, even if it never quite became reality.

In his head flitted memories of his childhood, of senseability and the odd bout of senselessness. Of naming small creatures and playing songs to stir the forest. He played a song now, his harmonica to his lips, but no longer was it fulfilled with the restless energy from before, rather it held melancholy, the dull ache that had lessened, but still persisted.

The valley wasn't far now, he knew this as he crossed into familiar territory, wandered past trees on which they'd swung and crossed over streams in which they'd fished. Back then he'd cast for five minnows and then let them go, this time he'd heed their warning, there was no reason to stay anymore.

It was certainly different without the moomins, it wasn't unfriendly, certainly not, he always felt welcome, but there was a deep crater that seemed to vibrate throughout the tales told, no longer illustrated by the pappa, no longer contradicted by the mamma, no more stories created by adventures of their adventurous son. He had his own travels to tell, but they weren't so interesting, there was something that made it more fascinating when narrated by a moomin.

He passed by the Snorks' House, by Sniff's, by the Fillyjonks' and followed the path like it was carved in stone. Light burst through the canopy of the trees, as more of it gathered, his song slowed to an end. Stood still, he faced the empty house, the empty porch, the empty bridge, waiting as he had every year for moomin to suddenly appear, yelling in delight as he ran to meet him.

He followed the river south, to a flat, over the crest of the hill was the tiled roof of the abandoned house visable, a worn rope ladder tangling on one line of cord from a crooked window. Setting up camp, he fished, two hours, one minnow, two roach, he cooked the roach and set the minnows free. 

.... 

He was greeted by an absence of snow the next morning, the spring sun shining in his eyes off the river. He sat by it and played a small tune, something suitable for a row boat sailing far off into the distance, leaving a world behind. 

By the evening he'd gone looking to see if any of his old friends had awakened, but their huts and houses where silent, so he fished again, roach, dace, two minnows. Once again the minnows swam free. 

.... 

The next day it rained hard, so he sat lonely in his tent, he didn't mind being alone, but being alone in moominvalley was something foreign and would feel such till the end of days.

He fished three minnows and nothing else, he had a few pieces of food left to spare, he figured and away they swam.

.......

His fourth day in moominvalley was bleak, but not unpleasant, he gathered his courage and looked inside the old house, something he'd not done in many years, it was a different kind of courage it required, a courage to face the ghosts of the past, not the ones that may be trapped between time. 

The inside was pleasant, maintained for the travelers that visited and temporarily stayed he figured. It wasn't as clean as moominmamma would have kept it, clumps of fur resting on the bannister or unintentional scratches on the chairs, but it roused old memories that caused him to return to the river and play songs he'd thought he'd forgotten, songs with joy and a skip in their step, perfect for dancing on fluffy paws with eager tails.

He fished in the river and caught four minnows and a bream, the bream burnt, but he wasn't complaining and neither were the minnows as they swam away.

......

Perched on a fallen log, Snufkin cast his line out to the river, pipe tight in his mouth and puffed cloud of smoke into the wind. In the bucket beside him four tiny minnows swam in circles, darting back and forth.

Humming a tune, he watched his float as the seconds, minutes and hours passed by, focused on it bobbing on the curling movements of the river. It had turned from dawn to midday and dusk had begun to approach. Finally, it dipped. He flicked up his rod and began to wind up the reel, a fierce tug of war between him a the fish till finally the water gave way and a fifth minnow rose above it.

He sighed, drawing the line in and unhooking the minnow, carefully guiding it into his water filled bucket which he lifted and carried back to camp.

He hadn't started his fire yet, yet there was already one roaring in the fire pit, spitting sparks into the sky. A sillouette sat in front of it, a familiar outline.  
"Snorkmaiden," he said expectantly, "it's good to see you, I went to find you the other day, but I assume you were asleep."  
Approaching he set the bucket by the log on which she sat, he watched the fire for a moment longer before looking at his old friend.  
"I'm afraid to say th-" he cut himself off.  
"I thought I was a Moomin, not a Snork." A very different old friend joked, and suddenly he was being engulfed as Moomin launched at him and embraced him.  
"Moomin?" the Mumrik said, unsure if he was hallucinating or delirious.  
"Yes, Snufkin, it's me."  
He wrapped his arms around Moomintroll in response, neither said nothing, both trapped in a euthophoria of disbelief, one of his friend's return and the other that his friend must have been returning all the years that had passed.

After what may have been minutes or what may have been hours, they seperated, a smile on Snufkin's face as Moomin's tail joyously flicked around. The elation fell though as Moomin set his eyes in the bucket.  
"Five minnows?" He asked.  
"Yes," Snufkin, nodded, finally setting down his fishing rod, trading it for the bucket.  
"Did you catch them?" Moomin asked, a slight misery entering his voice.  
Snufkin bent to the river, releasing all five of them them back home.  
"No."  
Moomin perked up.  
"Hurrah! Snufkin!" He yelled, now an adult, but not acting as one. "Hurrah! I have so much to tell you, all the adventures, you must have much to tell me too."  
He held onto his arm, pulling it in tremendous enthusiasm.  
"Of course, Moomin." Snufkin promised, "I have eight years of stories to tell, I have a feeling neither of us will know where to start."  
Moomin grabbed his hand and tugged him up towards Moomin house, Snufkin following, a hand clutched onto his hat and a beam on his face.  
Neither of them looked back to the lake where the five minnows swam away.


End file.
